


god will grow no talons at his heels

by Tyranno



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Emotions, Gen, Mind Control Aftermarth, say no to HYDRA cap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You were mind controlled, of course,” The Agent said, shuffling papers, “So it's unlikely that you'll remember anything, but it's protocol so I'm going to go over the events.” He opened a folder and flipped carefully through some pictures. </p>
<p>Steve said nothing. He watched the long shadows of the next building stretch through the room's windows, spreading like dark liquid over the table. <i>This is how Bucky felt</i>, he registered vaguely. He wondered how his friend managed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	god will grow no talons at his heels

**Author's Note:**

> almost didn't post this, for a few reasons, but I couldn't quite resist an opertunity for quoting wilfred owens, even if it _is_ kinda cheating when adding the poem increases my wordcount by 1/4, so sorry about that. 
> 
> and since its june 1st for about four more minutes, happy jewish comics day, everyone :)

**Arms and the Boy**

_By Wilfred Owen_

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade  
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;  
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;  
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,   
Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,   
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth   
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.  
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;  
And God will grow no talons at his heels,  
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.

 

* * *

 

“You were mind controlled, of course,” The Agent said, shuffling papers, “So it's unlikely that you'll remember anything, but it's protocol so I'm going to go over the events.” He opened a folder and flipped carefully through some pictures.

Steve said nothing. He watched the long shadows of the next building stretch through the room's windows, spreading like dark liquid over the table. _This_ _i_ _s how Bucky felt,_ he registered vaguely. He wondered how his friend managed it.

The Agent began to talk, flipping pages and glancing over pictures. Outside the large window, street lights flickered like lazy paparazzi.

Steve's fingers started to shake. A little tremor, like a shiver, and he hid his hand under the table. Something heavy and acidic stirred sluggishly in his chest, a little like nausea and a little like guilt, something that coated his insides like tar. He grimaced and tried to drag himself back to the present, but it was like he couldn't get a good grip on his own mind, like his thoughts were secrets from him.

A pressure formed just behind his throat. He tried to swallow it but it was painful, and hard.

The Agent was showing him a picture but Steve's eyes wouldn't focus on it. Steve could feel himself slipping away and he gripped the table tightly.

“Could you leave please?” Steve ground out.

The Agent blinked at him, putting the photograph back in the folder.

Steve stood, shoulders shaking, “Could you _leave_ , please?”

The Agent shuffled out.

Steve sighed and it felt like parts of him collapsed in on itself. The tar-like feeling grew heavier, like lead coating his bones and dragging him down, drowning him. Pain prickled in his chest like swallowed glass and he sat down heavily, gripping the edge of the table.

He felt rotten. Unclean. His skin, his flesh, his blood felt rancid, streaked with filth. He felt used and disgusting, he couldn't look at his hands let alone meet his own eyes in the mirror on the opposite wall. He wanted to stand in the shower for hours and scrub his skin clean but he couldn't move.

Grief rushed up at him like a tide. Steve's heart stuttered—the table creaked under his grip—the heady pound of emotions inside him seemed too much, too much for one person to hold this, this _ocean_ of pain. It felt like he'd burst.

He sobbed.

It was ragged and sharp, whining in a way that set his own teeth on edge. Pathetic. What use was he if couldn't even stop himself from becoming something he hated? Why did he have to be so weak? He sobbed again and his heart lurched.

Steve dropped his forehead against the table top, pressing his shaking hands against his ears to drown out his crying. His face was unbearably hot. Tears slid down his nose and dripped onto the table top.

Outside the window, the street lights blinked feebly.


End file.
